Sir John. Oons, I won't leave you, not I.
Heart. Nay, but you must, though; and therefore make no Words on't.
Sir John. Then you are a couple of damned uncivil Fellows. And I hope your Punks will give you Sauce to your Mutton.
[Exit Sir John.
Lady Brute. Oh, I shall never come to myself again, I'm so frightened.
Const. 'Twas a narrow 'Scape, indeed.
Bel. Women must have Frolicks, you see, whatever they cost them.
Heart. This might have proved a dear one, though.
Lady Brute. You are the more obliged to us for the Risk we run upon your Accounts.
Const. And I hope you'll acknowledge something due to our Knight-Errantry, Ladies. This is the second time we have delivered you.